


Nostalgia

by tastewithouttalent



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Inspired by official art, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 21:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4035838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Misaki can make out the lopsided drag of his smile, the weird softness that always hovers at the corners of Saruhiko’s eyes like he’s gone nostalgic before the present has even fallen into memory." Misaki captures the present while Saruhiko anticipates the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nostalgia

“I think it’s cool,” Misaki declares with all the force of winning an argument through sheer volume as he drops to the green sweep of grass under his feet. “I thought you were the one who was all excited about getting back to school, Saru.”

“I am,” Saruhiko says, a slow slur that has no heat of excitement under it at all. “I am excited.”

Misaki lifts a hand to shade his eyes from the sun, squints up at Saruhiko’s face. The other boy is standing with his shoulders slumped forward, hands loose at his sides; his face is in shadow, too dark for Misaki to make out his expression against the overbright shine of light behind him.

“You sure don’t sound excited,” Misaki says. He reaches up, curls his fingers into the loose edge of Saruhiko’s white shirt to tug a request into the fabric. “C’mon, sit down already.”

“You’re going to stain your shirt,” Saruhiko observes as he folds bonelessly to the ground. With the closer proximity Misaki can make out the lopsided drag of his smile, the weird softness that always hovers at the corners of Saruhiko’s eyes like he’s gone nostalgic before the present has even fallen into memory. He doesn’t ask about it, barely notices the expression -- it’s always there, as much a part of the other boy as the jump of his voice when he’s truly excited or the part of his lips when Misaki gets too near.

He’s drifting towards that, now, the shadows of his gaze dipping down to slide against Misaki’s mouth. The focused attention prickles hot up Misaki’s spine, burns self-awareness over his skin until he’s flushing far hotter than the sun can account for, and he’d like to lean in towards the suggestive tilt to Saruhiko’s shoulders but they’re in public, if only technically, and it’s on him to keep them from overstepping boundaries. Saruhiko certainly won’t.

Misaki looks down instead, at the screen of the phone he dropped carelessly to the grass, retrieves the weight of it as he clears his throat. He can glimpse himself in the dark glass front, his features made shadowed by the surface before he taps the screen and lights up the display.

“We should get a picture,” he declares, still without looking up because he can feel Saruhiko’s eyes on him, can sense the familiar heat of the other’s gaze trailing across his features like they’re those of a stranger. “To commemorate our first day as third-years.”

“Okay,” Saruhiko agrees with all the uncaring passivity he always offers to Misaki’s requests. Misaki doesn’t look up at him, barely glances sideways before he casts himself backwards, drops to sprawl out over the sun-warmed heat of the grass. When he lifts the phone it centers on Saruhiko’s face as if by magic rather than intent, the photo lens tracking the dark locks of hair and the weight of the frames covering the other’s face. It’s easier to look at him through the camera, at enough of a distance that Misaki can forget it’s him Saruhiko’s looking at, can ignore that the soft of inexplicable almost-regret in the other’s eyes is aimed at him.

“Lie down,” Misaki orders, still meeting Saruhiko’s gaze through the display on his phone. Saruhiko’s mouth twists tight at the corner, his lips working on amusement or irritation Misaki’s not sure, but then he goes, falls back against the grass in the opposite direction so when his hand falls limp his fingers catch in Misaki’s hair, his head bumping Misaki’s hip. Misaki’s the one who moves, wiggling down across the grass until their heads are more-or-less on level; it loses him the contact of Saruhiko’s fingertips, but he can see the other boy turning towards him in his periphery, the shift of Saruhiko’s eyelashes when he blinks slow at him.

“Okay,” Misaki announces, shifting his phone so it’s their reflection he sees in the screen instead of the white-bright sky overhead. He’s making a strange face, the unconscious creased-forehead of focus, but Saruhiko isn’t looking at the camera at all; his head is tilted sideways, like it’s gone too heavy for him to hold up, and he’s blinking slow at Misaki’s hair, a hand coming up across his chest to brush over the loose strands.

“Hey,” Misaki says, weak protest undermined by the way he can see himself start to smile in the photo preview. “Saru, stop, you have to look at the camera.”

Saruhiko doesn’t look up. He shuts his eyes instead, tips his head in closer, and when he breathes “Misaki” it’s heated into a whisper so low and shivering that Misaki trembles with it, his hand holding the phone shaking them out-of-focus for a minute.

“Stop,” he says again, though it’s hard for the smile at his lips and the way he’s turning in, reflex tugging his attention sideways to meet the tip of Saruhiko’s head. “Saru, hey, we’re outside.” Saruhiko turns his head up, parts his lips like he’s anticipating a kiss, and Misaki is breathing in against his mouth, the fire-bright heat of Saruhiko’s lips catching like a brand against his own.

“Saru,” he says again, and Saruhiko whines, the vibration purring out into Misaki’s blood in a wordless plea. It makes him laugh, a burst of almost-startled sound, and then he’s leaning in, pressing his mouth to Saruhiko’s for the span of a heartbeat. Saruhiko tips in closer, his fingers curling for a hold at Misaki’s hair, but Misaki pulls back before he can get a grasp, lifting his free hand to press between them and gently turn Saruhiko’s face away.

“Later,” he says, half-laughing and half-chastising. “Lemme take the picture, Saru.”

Saruhiko submits to the push, like he submits to everything Misaki does to him. He turns his head away, lays his shoulders flat on the ground; by the time Misaki is steadying the camera back into focus he can meet Saruhiko’s eyes in the preview image, both of them smiling up at the lens. Misaki angles his thumb out, reaches to press the capture button -- and Saruhiko’s eyes slide sideways, his fingers stretching out to brush against Misaki’s hair as the picture clicks into permanency.

“Damn,” Misaki says as the picture clicks itself into memory. “You ruined it.” He twists the phone sideways, lets his hand slide away from Saruhiko’s face to brace the weight of the screen while he navigates back to the main photo collection. “You looked away at the last second, Saru.” The picture comes open, the evidence of moments ago laid out on the screen, and something in Misaki’s chest twists, a sharp twinge of near-pain catching under his ribs.

It’s not a bad picture. The lighting is good, the sunlight turning the grass around them jewel-bright and washing the white of their shirts into a crisp glow. It’s setting off their hair, too, turning Misaki’s own flame-bright and Saruhiko’s rich and nearly purple in the illumination. But for all Misaki is the one smiling at the camera it’s Saruhiko who draws the viewer’s eye, the soft in his eyes caught by the lens along with the awkward want in the angle of his fingers, the careful touch with Misaki’s hair like he’s not sure he’ll be allowed to continue.

Misaki stares at it for a long time. It’s a good picture, a clean, well-lit shot of the two of them together like he’s rarely able to capture. But something in it hurts like a knife, a scalpel’s edge so sharp he can only feel the pain from the heat of the spilled blood across his skin, and he gazes at it while the crease in his forehead etches itself deeper with the premonition of discomfort the image brings.

Then there’s warmth against his skin, lips ghosting at his ear, and when Saruhiko trembles a sigh against his neck Misaki lets his arm fall, drops the camera to the grass, and turns in sideways to meet him.

It’s easy to lose the ache of almost-hurt against the soft give of Saruhiko’s lips.


End file.
